Not His Fault
by hauntedlittledoll
Summary: Title taken from Orson Scott Card's "Ender's Game."  Crowley was always a trifle too oportunistic, but he's a fool to think the Winchesters won;t interfere now.


**"It's not his fault he was a Third." - Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game**

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><p>Sam and Dean are late to the party yet again. Crowley liked to mojo them in from wherever they happened to be at the time whenever it looked like the Campbells were about to fail.<p>

Sam and Dean are getting somewhat used to it.

Dean shoved the last of his burger in his mouth, and yanked the crowbar out of Gwen's hands. Sam elbowed past the multitude of obscure relatives to their grandfather's side. What Samuel was holding put a chill in both Winchesters' hearts.

Samuel Campbell has an angelic blade, and there's only one reason for him to be hefting a weapon like that.

"You morons cornered an angel?" Dean grimaced. "How are you even still alive?"

"One of Crowley's pets got loose," Gwen reported. She is the weak link in the Campbell chain, and Dean hated to admit it, but he actually likes her for it. "You mean to tell me that we're hunting angels, and that's the only firepower we've got?"

"You were hunting angels," Sam corrected her. "Now you're getting out of here. All of you."

"I'm not leaving the two of you to go up against that thing. You may have your fluffy little friend, but that thing just burned down two heavily warded buildings and destroyed twenty-seven creatures in captivity."

"And that's just a fraction of what it's capable of when you. Piss. It. Off," Dean enunciated clearly. He was dealing with a slow learner here. "Now get back and cover your ears if you value your hearing."

He didn't wait to see if they complied—mostly because he didn't particularly care if the prey turned on the hunter in this case. Gwen's already heading for the exit, and the rest can explode as far as Dean's concerned.

He glanced at Sam. "Here's hoping that it's one of Cas' buddies . . . you know, one that won't smite us on sight."

Sam shifted his grip on the crowbar. "Are we ever that lucky?" he returned shortly, frowning at the melted mass of metal that once passed for a lock.

Dean conceded the point even as he raised the angel-knife. Better safe than sorry, and why had the Campbells even bothered with the ruined lock when there was a perfectly good set of ancient hinges available?

Sam wedged the crowbar firmly, and gave a mighty tug. Hinges came loose with the screech of deformed metal and splintering wood. The door gave way in the opposite direction its creator had intended, and at first all they can see is the darkness within the cramped space that looks more like a closet than a cell. Then Samuel's waving around a flashlight that Dean is pretty certain will get them all killed.

The light illuminated blonde hair and the slick wetness of blood. And then it illuminated the long column of the Winchester nose. It's an unusual perspective, Dean considered idly in that first moment of confusion. He's used to Sam and Dad looking down at him from that nose—not looking down at that nose.

And then realization hits about the same time as the body in the closet springs to life—and away from the Winchesters/Campbells. There's a dull thud as it collides with the shelves in the back of the closet, and Adam's eyes fly open, emitting the too-bright glow of an angel forced to leave his vessel.

The Winchesters' problems are never solved that simply.

Adam's body jerked as the light cuts off suddenly, and Dean's right there on the ground, cradling his youngest brother's body before it slams against the shelves . . . again.

Adam's body pulsed like a heartbeat gone wrong, and the light tried to stream away again, only to hit some metaphysical wall, and rebound into the littlest Winchester once again.

"His chest, Dean."

And maybe there's something to be said for Robo!Sam's ability to think clearly in a crisis, because Dean was not comprehending the apparent whole-story here. Now that his attention has been refocused, Dean recognized the mark carved into his baby brother's chest.

Banishing sigils are so last season.

It's only then as the flippant remark flies through his brain that Dean belatedly recognizes the blood on his hands comes from a second source as does the horrible stench of burnt skin.

He's not sure when he dropped the knife, but their grandfather edges in on Dean's left with the blade raised. Dean brought back his elbow hard into a vulnerable kneecap, relishing the grunt that the older hunter made. Samuel glared down at them, his expression thrown into sharp relief by the pulses of light.

Dean has bigger fish to fry.

The banishing sigil can't do its work, and that means that something else is trapping Michael inside the youngest Winchester.

Sam has his back, and Dean can trust his brother with this—soul or no soul.

Dean pulled Adam out of the closet, flattening the kid against the ground with a knee in the small of his brother's back. Dragging the borrowed button-down off of Adam's shoulders, Dean found a series of sigils reminiscent of Ruby's knife. These ones are drawn, not carved, and Dean suspects that the blood is demonic.

At least he doesn't have to worry about Sam anymore.

Adam's frame locked up as Michael attempted another exit, and there isn't time for anything else. Dean tugs a cuff over his hand and rubs roughly at his youngest brother's shoulder blades with the dingy flannel.

Adam screamed.

Dean can see the explosion of light even through his eyelids, and then everything is a dark throbbing red as the natural order struggles to reassert itself.

It doesn't sound as if any of their relatives were conveniently blinded by the archangel's exit, so Dean opened his eyes.

There's no sign of Michael. Crowley's going to be pissed. Dean was kind of hoping that the two would finish each other off. No such luck.

Sam is in functional condition, but his bodyguard role has been mostly negated by the rapid evacuation of Angelic Ground Zero that the Campbells are performing.

Adam is unconscious, his cheek mashed into the concrete flooring, but he still had both eyes and no blood leaking from anything important.

Sam crouched beside Dean. Between the two older brothers, they manage to get the youngest off the floor and braced between them.

Adam stirred weakly at that, and Dean leaned in closer. Adam blinked twice, finally focused, and Dean watched recognition set in.

"Adam?"  
>The youngest Winchester's mouth moved soundlessly for a moment, then screwed up in a grimace. Dean glanced up at Sam, and then hurried to catch Adam as the boy pulled away from Sam in order to seize Dean's shirt front.<p>

"Whoa . . . it's okay, Ad-"

Adam spat in his face.

And Dean kind of deserved that.


End file.
